Die Hard
by QTR
Summary: Old wounds die hard. In the shower scene in 4x4, Greg stumbles upon some startling skeletons Sara thought she had locked away long ago. Oneshot. GregSara.


**A/N: This is just a little 'what-if' Greg/Sara oneshot taking place after the shower scene in 4x4 :)**

"Sara, I saw the bruises."

"What?"

"I saw the bruises and scars on your body."

"What are you talking about, Greg?"

"I think you know what I'm talking about, Sara." Clearly, she knows what I'm talking about. Normally I would find her stubbornness cute but if someone hurt her…

She turns back to her locker and continues to shuffle through her things. "I think that's between me and my counselor."

"Don't be sarcastic, Sara," I growl. I feel badly that I'm treating her this way but I want answers. I'm not going to let her brush it aside anymore, not this time. I'm going to have to push her if she doesn't tell me. "Why don't you let us in? Just trust us!"

I had never heard such silence.

She stops going through her locker and turns to look at me, a pained expression etched on her face and now I know I'm treading in murky waters.

"The last time I trusted anyone, Greg, they ended up dead," she whispers.

Dead? What is she talking about? "What are you saying, Sara?" I ask, my tone softening. The glistening of tears in her eyes has hit me hard. I hate to see her this way. I'm so used to seeing her smile.

She turns back around and closes her locker with a loud slam. "Don't dwell on it," she advises me, grabbing her jacket and turning to leave.

No, not this time. I may be fresh meat in the field but Sara is my friend, someone I care about and I'm not going to let her keep hurting alone.

"Trust me," I tell her. She stops, her back facing me. "Please, Sara," I plead with her. I'm not going to ask you on a date or tell you some stupid joke; I'm here for you now, like you were always there for me.

"I can't," she barely whispers in response.

"Why the hell not?" Just _talk_ to me! I want to scream.

"Damn it, Greg," she angrily whispers and turns around, the tears still present in her eyes. Unable to hide them anymore I watch as one slowly descends down her cheek. "I just can't, okay? Everyone I trust ends up hurt in the end, and I don't want to hurt anyone else ever again."

Sara, you could never hurt anyone. "Sara, come here."

"What?"

"Come here," I repeat. If she doesn't come over here, I'm going over there myself.

"Just drop it, Greg."

That's it. Walking toward her, just as stubborn, I tightly clamp my arms around her shoulders before she has a chance to move away.

"Let go of me," she mumbles in defiance. I sadly look down at her face and watch as the tears continue to freely fall. Who made you this way, Sara?

"I'm not going to let go of you," I tell her. I have no idea where this new-found confidence has come from, but I'm taking full advantage of it. I'm usually Greggo, the music-blasting Marilyn Manson t-shirt-garbed dork. Now I feel like Superman. I like it. It's dangerous. It's sexy.

"Greg, let _go_ of me!" she repeats, trying to wiggle her way away from my strong grip.

"Sara, stop it," I order her. "I'm not going to let go until you tell me what happened to you," I softly add. "I'm not going to watch you hurt anymore. You've been there for me and now I'm going to return the favor."

And then she just melted. I almost dropped her as she sunk against my body and started to break down in sobs but I drop to the ground pulling her in my arms before she can. I gently try to console and calm her down before asking her anymore questions.

After a few moments she speaks. "What all did you see?" she asks me.

"Some scars," I answer. Nasty-looking scars.

"Where?" she asks.

I don't want to admit I was looking, but I answer. "There was one on your back. It was pretty big."

She laughs dryly, wiping at one of her eyes with her hand. "Circa 1982; my eleventh birthday."

I furrow an eyebrow in confusion. "Did you fall and get hurt?"

"Something like that," she laughs again.

Why is she laughing? "What happened?"

"How is your relationship with your family?" she asks me out of the blue.

I blink, but I respond. "Well… my mom wanted six kids, but… she only ended up with one," I start. "They're over-protective, to say the least. I practically gave my mom a heart attack when I fell off the monkey bars at the playground when I was seven-years-old," I tell her, "None of my relationships ever lasted when I was a teenager. My mom drove them away."

"You should be thankful," she tells me, staring down at the floor, "Cherish that. That's love."

I nod slowly, trying to understand where she's going with this, "So how about your family?" I ask her. I've never heard any mention of any family from Sara before.

"What about it?" she tries to stall for time.

"How's your relationship with them?" I try again.

"Her," she corrects me.

"Her?"

"My father died when I was 13," she informs me.

I shoot her a sympathetic look even though she's still fixated on the floor tiles. "I'm sorry."

"My father and I were always real close," she continues like she didn't hear me. "My mother didn't like that. She wanted a daughter she could smother with frilly dresses and hair crap. She was disappointed that I wasn't like that and she always held it against my father, like it was his fault that I was that way."

I nod slowly and continue to listen.

"When I was about 10 years old they started to drink a lot," she states, "Dad would come home later and later every night, I barely got to see him at all. Mom would yell at him every night, it always woke me up. She was always accusing him of cheating on her."

She takes a deep breath before continuing.

"I loved my father, I truly did."

"I don't have a doubt about that, Sara," I tell her.

"And I hated him, too," she whispered.

I feel her tense against me. "Why?" I simply ask.

"Because he was a monster," she whispered. "When he drank… he became a completely different person. Some people, you know they're funny drunks, the ones that get up on the bar tables and dance. My father wasn't that way. Neither was my mother."

I watch another tear run down her face.

"They were both horrible to each other, and I heard every minute of it. The awful things they said to each other, the fights, the yelling, the hitting… I just wanted it all to stop. They weren't my parents anymore. They had become something completely different."

Oh Sara…

"I tried to get in the middle of it on my eleventh birthday. I had just finished opening presents and they had lit the birthday candles before they got into it about how many candles were on the damned cake. They were like little kids," she laughs, "I didn't think it was a big deal, they had fought before. But it was my birthday, and I didn't want them to act like that on my birthday."

"I understand that," I tell her.

"So I asked them if they would stop…"

…

"And I fell down the stairs."

I raise an eyebrow.

"At least that's what they told the doctor at the ER," she continues. "My dad pushed me into the coffee table in the living room and I fell into the shattered glass."

My eyes widen.

"I guess it never healed that well," she whispers.

"...Sara…" I don't know what to say to you right now…

"And when I turned 13, my mother killed him," she continues. "Is there anything else you want to know?" she whispers.

I simply wrap my arms back around her as she starts to cry. I know she hates to be seen crying, she likes to be seen strong all the time, that was something I noticed when she was mentoring me. Right now I feel like the mentor. I don't know how she could have possibly managed to keep that all in all this time.

"I'm sorry, Sara," I tell her. "I'm so sorry you had to deal with all of that…"

"It's okay," she replies, wiping at her eyes again. She moves to get to her feet and I decide not to protest. "Listen, do… you want to come over to my place and watch a movie or something?" she asks me.

I blink. Did I just hear her right?

"I… don't want to be alone right now," she admits.

A smile crosses my face as I get to my feet. "Sure," I brightly tell her, "But no sad stuff. Or chick flicks. Something uplifting, like… Die Hard."

She scoffs and I inwardly grin. "Die Hard is _uplifting_?" she incredulously asks, heading out of the locker room with me trailing behind her. "You're such a guy."

"Sorry," I shoot her a teasing grin and she playfully swats at me with her hand.

And just like that, she's back to being my same old stubborn Sara.

The End


End file.
